


A Thousand Words

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Christmas, Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-09
Updated: 1999-10-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11139000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: After the 27th's Christmas party, Ray has a special evening planned for Fraser.  It turns out to be more special than he could have imagined.





	A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

A Thousand Words

 

 

This is an erotic character study (aka PWP) featuring the characters  
Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski from the television series _Due South_.  
An answer to Lex's "Get 'em in Bed after the Credits Roll"  
Challenge on Serge. Set immediately following the end of "Good  
for the Soul;" contains minor spoilers for that episode.  
  
Rated NC-17 for graphic sexuality (M/M). If  
you're considered a minor in your community please do not read this .  
If you're narrow-minded, easily offended, or have something against Chicago  
Flatfoots with Experimental Hair, you may want to take a pass as well.  
Characters property of Alliance, yadda, yadda, yadda. Everything else  
is my smutty intellectual property.  
  
Thanks to Betty, Audra & Meghan for Beta.  
  
Soundtrack: Marc Cohn-- "Strangers in a Car" and "True  
Companion" & Savage Garden--"Truly, Madly, Deeply."  
  


* * *

  
  
****

  
A Thousand Words  
©1999, Kellie Matthews  


  
        The 27th's Christmas  
party was still going strong, but for Benton Fraser it had ended the  
moment an exasperated Ray had pried an inebriated Francesca off Fraser's  
chest and announced he was driving her home. Even if he wasn't really  
her brother, there were appearances to be maintained. After that, the  
party had lost much of its luster. Deciding it was time to take his  
leave, he headed for the door, sensing rather than seeing Diefenbaker  
at his heels. It was clear the wolf felt no particular compulsion to  
stay, especially in light of the facts that he had already been fed numerous  
snacks by various partygoers, and Ante had gone home with Francesca.  
        Stepping outside,  
Fraser was mildly surprised to find it snowing heavily. He buttoned  
his coat, pulled on his gloves and carefully tucked his Christmas gift  
into his pocket where the snow couldn't reach it. Walking the familiar  
route toward the consulate, he noticed that traffic was extremely light.  
Not entirely unexpected. He supposed most people had already gone home  
to their families. Family. He found himself smiling a little as he  
walked, thinking of the welcome but completely unexpected gift. Of course,  
it was altogether puzzling how his father had managed to make that happen.  
After all, he was quite incorporeal, yet the photograph was undeniably  
real.  
        "I didn't.  
After all, I am dead."  
        Ben  
almost jumped, startled, and turned to find his father walking beside  
him, leaving no tracks in the slushy snow on the sidewalk. He frowned.  
        "You didn't?  
Then how. . ."  
        Robert  
Fraser shook his head solemnly. "I just planted a seed, son. That's  
all."  
        "Then  
who . . ." His voice trailed off as he ran through possibilities.  
        "You really should  
learn to finish your sentences, Benton. Unfinished sentences are a sign  
of a disorganized mind."  
        Fraser  
controlled his irritation. "If you didn't give it to me, then who  
did?"  
        His father  
looked at him in silence for a moment, and then sighed, shaking his head.  
"Not much of a detective, are you, son?"  
        "Dad!"  
Fraser snapped in exasperation.  
        The  
older man held up a gloved hand. Fraser found himself wondering why  
he would feel the need for gloves when he couldn't actually feel cold.  
        "Oh, no. I'm  
not going to make it easy on you. Some things you just have to figure  
out on your own."  
        With  
that he ceased to exist. Well, he'd ceased to exist some time ago but  
that hadn't stopped him from making irritating appearances now and again.  
Fraser stared into the snow where he'd been standing and scowled. "Thanks,  
Dad. You're always such a help."  
        If  
his father hadn't gotten him the photo, who had? It had to be someone  
who knew him well, knew what it would mean to him to have that memento.  
But who knew him that well? No one did. Not a soul. That was his own  
fault, he knew. He didn't let people get close. Truth to tell, he had  
no idea how to let people get close. The few times he'd tried it, he'd  
ended up deeply hurt. After that he'd decided he simply was not destined  
for closeness. It said a lot that his best friend was really only pretending  
to be his best friend in order to protect the life of a brother officer.  
        He sighed deeply  
and started walking again, then stopped. He just couldn't face going  
back to the Consulate, to that cold, empty, nearly sterile room he called  
home. He didn't want to face the fact that at nearly forty years of  
age, he was still spending every holiday alone, and it looked as if he  
always would. As if to chide him for thinking he was alone, Diefenbaker  
nosed his thigh, and he smiled faintly as he looked down at the wolf.  
No, he wasn't quite alone. Someone, at least, chose to spend time with  
him of his own free will.  
        "Would  
you like to go to the park?"  
        The  
wolf responded joyously and Fraser altered their route, the photograph  
still occupying his thoughts. He clearly remembered the occasion on  
which it had been taken, his parent's anniversary, shortly before his  
mother's death. He sighed, trying to push that thought from his mind  
before it led to a cascade of self-pity. As if he wasn't being bad enough  
without that thought. He wished Ray hadn't had to go. Ray could always  
take his mind off his darker moods, shining into the tangled forest of  
his thoughts like the sunlight he was named for. His mother had chosen  
well.  
        He wondered  
if Mrs. Kowalski had sensed, even in those first hours, how brilliant  
a soul she had birthed. He was drawn to that light like the proverbial  
moth to the flame, and had to constantly strive to keep himself out of  
the fire, because he knew it would burn him irreparably. He would have  
to be satisfied to stay far enough outside the heat for safety. Outside  
the glass. Wanting in.  
        Lord,  
he was depressing tonight. It was just as well Ray wasn't here, because  
as sensitive as he was he would pick up on Fraser's emotions and worry  
unnecessarily. He quickened his pace. Though the park was sculpted  
by man, at least it had grass and trees, and some semblance of naturalness  
to it. He often retreated there when the city became too much for him,  
or when his thoughts demanded the solace of solitude.

* * *  


  
        Ray pushed through the  
double doors into the bullpen and the party enveloped him. He could  
smell the whiskey-spiked hot cider that had done in Frannie, and grinned,  
feeling ridiculously pleased with himself for having managed to rescue  
Fraser from her somewhat sloshed clutches. The sheer panic he'd read  
on the Mountie's face when Fraser had realized he was unable to politely  
disentangle himself had brought all Ray's protective instincts to the  
fore.  
        Of course, his inherently  
jealous nature had something to do with his reaction, too. Not that  
he wanted Frannie. No, life couldn't be that simple. But it was manifestly  
unfair that she got to break the rules, since he'd spent months now making  
an idiot of himself around his ex-wife in order to make sure Fraser didn't  
suspect that his partner wanted to be plastered all over him like a certain  
civilian aide had just been. Then he remembered he was, after all, Frannie's  
'big brother,' and voila, problem solved.  
        A half hour time-out  
to take her home and drive back, and now it was time to find Fraser and  
hang for awhile. He even had special videos for tonight. He was pretty  
sure that "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" and "It's a  
Wonderful Life" would meet even Fraser's exacting standards. The  
problem was finding Fraser. He didn't see the Stetson anywhere. Or  
any red serge, for that matter. He did see Huey and Dewey standing next  
to the crock-pot full of cider, staring at each other with really peculiar  
expressions on their faces. He wondered briefly what that was all about,  
then he spotted Welsh, still clutching his box of Cubans like a prize,  
and headed that way.  
        "Detective,  
I thought you'd left us," Welsh said as he settled in next to him,  
people-watching.  
        "Just  
had to take Frannie home before she passed out."  
        "For  
which you have my profound appreciation, Detective. And, I suspect,  
Red's too."  
        Ray  
chuckled. "Yeah, I suspect so. Speaking of which, have you seen  
him?"  
        Welsh  
thought about it, then shook his head. "I haven't seen him since  
just after you left. I suppose I thought he was with you."  
        "What about Thatcher  
and Turnbull? Did they all take off together?" Maybe there was  
some Consulate Christmas thing he didn't know about.  
        "No,  
Inspector Thatcher is still here somewhere," Welsh said, glancing  
around the room thoughtfully. "Turnbull left a few minutes ago,  
after he ran down the battery on his ray-gun. Fraser's been gone much  
longer."  
        Ray  
frowned. "Oh."  
        "He  
probably didn't see much point in hanging around once you left,"  
Welsh said blandly.  
        "But  
I was coming back!" Ray protested, and only after he'd done so  
did he realize he sounded suspiciously whiny. Then he wondered what  
had made Welsh think Fraser would only hang around if he was there, and  
he stared at his superior officer narrowly. Welsh looked innocent, so  
Ray carefully slouched back and tried to reassert his cool. "Oh  
well, no big deal. Think I'll go check out the chips and dip."  
        Welsh nodded solemnly,  
and suddenly Ray had the oddest feeling he was wearing a huge sign that  
said "I want to screw my partner." He shook himself and slunk  
over to the goodies table, chowing down on a handful of chips, getting  
a cup of cider which he sipped, not really intending to drink it, just  
wanting something to do with his hands. Welsh was watching him, which  
was a little unnerving. He wandered over to his desk and his toe caught  
something on the floor under it. Something that clunked.  
        He  
put down his cup and stooped to look, a silly grin spreading over his  
face as he realized what it was. He toed the item deeper under his desk.  
After all, it wouldn't do for Thatcher to see it there, or worse, Dewey,  
especially after that 'Calling Dr. Freud' remark. Of course, Fraser  
the clueless wouldn't realize that leaving his sword under Ray's desk  
might cause comment. He'd probably just figured he didn't want to take  
it outside in the snow and had left it in a safe place until the weather  
was nicer.  
        He pretended  
to poke around in a drawer looking for something until he saw the Ice  
Queen walk up to Welsh, which got the man's attention real fast. Funny  
how ever since the _Henry Allen_ thing, Welsh and Thatcher seemed  
so much . . . easier around each other. What was up with that? In any  
case, with his superior's eagle eyes thus occupied, Ray was out of there  
like a shot. He couldn't believe Fraser had gone home. Why wouldn't  
he have stuck around for Ray to get back? 'Well, maybe because you didn't  
say he should, idjit,' he thought to himself. Still, he knew where home  
was, and the way Fraser always took to get there. No problem.  
        Except  
the Mountie wasn't en route, and he wasn't at the Consulate, which was  
dark behind its elegantly coordinated Christmas decorations. Ray sat  
in the car watching snow collect on the windshield, trying to think where  
he could be. Okay. Christmas Eve. Parties everywhere. Maybe someone  
had invited Fraser? Maybe the Vecchio's? Nah. He'd just been there.  
No party. Tonight they'd be going to Mass, tomorrow they'd party. And  
Fraser didn't really know anyone else to party with. Besides, he would  
have mentioned it.  
        So,  
think, Kowalski. You're a detective, detect! Where did Fraser go when  
he wasn't home, and wasn't at work, which were the same thing in any  
case. No, that didn't work, because the answer was Ray's apartment,  
and Ray was pretty sure he wouldn't be there without him, though it had  
happened once before. Still, those had been extenuating circumstances.  
Where else, then? Suddenly it came to him and he felt like he had a  
cartoon light bulb over his head. He grinned and started the car, waiting  
for the wiper blades to clear the snow before setting off. He knew exactly  
where Fraser would be on this cold, wet, snowy night.

* * *  


  
        Fraser sat on a park  
bench staring vaguely in Diefenbaker's general direction as the wolf  
romped in the snow, apparently pouncing on invisible rodents. Or, considering  
that this was, after all, Chicago, perhaps real rodents. Fortunately  
the wolf was more than capable of entertaining himself, since Fraser  
wasn't being much help there. Periodically Dief stopped playing and  
wandered over to nudge his hand, chiding him for having-- how had Francesca  
put it? Ah yes, a 'pity party.'  
        He  
knew he was being self-indulgent, but allowed himself the luxury. After  
all, it had been a particularly trying few days, and his faith in mankind,  
and in himself, had been sorely shaken. And though Ray, the lieutenant,  
and the rest of the division had come through for him in the end, he  
couldn't help feeling it was more from embarrassment than from true commitment.  
He shook his head, annoyed with himself. That was a completely unfair  
assessment, and he knew it. The fact that he'd had a difficult week did  
not excuse unkind thoughts. He knew better, he really did. About a  
great many things. Ray was not his friend out of obligation, and embarrassment  
had not been the primary motivation for what had occurred at Warfield's  
club.  
        So, those  
subjects dealt with, at least superficially, he shifted position on the  
bench, preparing to stand, and the ornate silver frame of the photograph  
in his coat pocket poked him a little, reminding him of its presence.  
He wondered again who could have gotten it for him. For that matter,  
how could his father have 'planted a seed' in anyone he knew? So far  
as he knew he was the only person to whom his father had ever appeared.  
Other than Sergeant Frobisher, of course . . . ah. Yes. That made sense.  
Somehow his father's old partner was involved in this, of that he was  
certain. Still, it had not come in the mail, it had been placed beneath  
the tree in a beautiful box. Someone here in Chicago had been involved.  
Turnbull couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it, and the Inspector  
wasn't one for sentimental gestures. So who could it have been?  
        Suddenly the sound of  
an engine brought his head up, and he watched, puzzled, as a car crept  
down the sidewalk toward him, snowflakes whirling in the twin paths of  
light that blazed from its grille. As he considered the fact that it  
was probably illegal to drive through the park on a sidewalk, whether  
or not there was any pedestrian traffic, he realized he knew the vehicle.  
It was, unmistakably, a somewhat snowy, black, 1967 Pontiac GTO. Ray.  
Immediately his mood lightened, a slight smile curving his mouth. The  
car eased to a stop a few feet away, and the passenger side door was  
flung open from the inside, revealing his partner's beaming face.  
        "Pitter patter,  
Fraser. Time for good little Mounties to come in outta the cold. You  
can sit an' mope some other time. Not tonight. Tonight is not a moping  
night."  
        "I'm  
not moping," Fraser said defensively. "It's a lovely night  
and Diefenbaker needed a run. I thought I would enjoy the night."  
        "Yeah, right. You're  
moping."  
        "Contemplating"  
        "Moping."  
        "Communing with  
nature."  
        "Moping."  
        Fraser sighed, and inclined  
his head, admitting defeat. "Moping."  
        Ray  
chuckled, and slapped the empty passenger seat. "You gonna get  
in, or are you gonna stay out?"  
        "How  
did you know I would be here?" Fraser asked, puzzled, walking over  
to stand next to the car. Dief was already there, waiting with obvious  
impatience for Fraser to put the seat forward so he could take his usual  
station in the back seat.  
        Ray  
rolled his eyes. "Fraser, we worked together how long now? Went  
by the Consulate, you weren't there, so I think, where else would he  
be? Bingo. Here."  
        "Ah."  
He supposed somehow that was a logical deduction, at least for Ray.  
Fraser let Dief into the car, then got in himself, closing the door.  
        "Good. We're  
good," Ray said happily, giving the car a little gas and slowly  
moving forward down the road. Or rather, the sidewalk. First things  
first.  
        "Ray,  
isn't it illegal to drive on the sidewalk?"  
        "Not  
if you're a cop looking for perpetrators."  
        "And  
are we looking for perpetrators?"  
        "We're  
always lookin' for perps, Fraser," Ray said grinning. "That's  
our job. Don't worry, I won't hit anybody."  
        "Of  
course not, Ray."  
        "You  
be shotgun, keep an eye out for mal . . . malfeasants."  
        Shotgun. Ray had insisted  
he ride 'shotgun' earlier that week, he'd told him he was proud of him.  
That simple, unlooked-for comment had warmed places that hadn't felt  
warmth in years. Someone he cared for was proud of him. Such a little  
thing. So important. Somehow he'd managed to forget that in the last  
few minutes. Suddenly it hit him. Ray had known to come here to look  
for him. He'd known. Instinctively. Ray was the only person who knew  
him well enough to know exactly where to search for him on a snowy night,  
the only person who would bother, the only person who would know he was,  
as he'd put it, moping.  
        The  
car lurched a little as Ray exited the sidewalk by simply driving off  
the curb and onto the street. Fraser removed his gloves and slipped  
a hand into his pocket, taking out the photograph. Ray glanced over,  
saw what he held, and a smile curved his mouth before he quickly turned  
his attention back to his driving. But the smile told Fraser what he  
needed to know. He remembered Ray's voice, a little over-loud, asking  
what that silver box held. Misdirection. Very well done.  
        He'd  
have to remember that Ray was so very good at hiding things. That thought  
made him wonder just what other things Ray might be hiding, what other  
things he was covering through misdirection. The possibilities were.  
. . intriguing. Still, before he leapt to an unwarranted conclusion,  
he had to pursue his deduction.  
        "Ray?"  
        "Yeah, Frase?"  
        "Thank you, for  
this."  
        Even  
in the darkness Fraser could see a flush paint Ray's face, and that just  
confirmed the smile. He didn't even need the words which followed.  
        "How'd you figger  
it out?"  
        "It  
could be no one else," Fraser said quietly.  
        There  
was a moment of silence, then Ray cleared his throat. "Thought  
you might like something like that since all your stuff got burned up,  
between the fire at your place, and the one at your dad's place."  
        Fraser frowned, puzzled.  
"How did you know about the fire at the cabin?"  
        Ray  
flashed him a quick grin. "You ain't the only one who can read  
a guy's file, Frase."  
        "You  
checked up on me?"  
        "Just  
wanted to know who I was workin' with. Interesting reading there."  
        "Surely not."  
        "No, I mean it.  
They busted you pretty good for what you did, didn't they? Even though  
you were right to do it. Guess the network is pretty much the same no  
matter if you wear red or blue. You got shafted, Frase. You're too  
damned good to be stuck here on guard duty."  
        An  
embarrassed blush made Fraser tug at his collar. He wasn't good with  
compliments.  
        "But  
then," Ray continued, "I guess I ain't complaining. 'Cause  
if you weren't stuck here on guard duty, then you and I wouldnta met,  
an' that'd just . . . suck."  
        Ben's  
head whipped around so fast he cracked his neck again in the other direction.  
He stared at Ray, whose gaze was carefully straight ahead. He suddenly  
felt short of air, as if the other occupants of the vehicle were using  
it all, leaving none for him. Surely Ray had not meant that quite the  
way it sounded. But no matter how he'd meant it, it deserved an answer.  
An honest one. He cleared his own throat.  
        "I  
too would feel the lack had we not met."  
        Ray  
shot a look at him, an oddly shy, tentative glance, and one corner of  
his mouth lifted in that self-deprecatory smile Fraser both loved and  
hated. He found his hand actually moving to smooth the dimple from Ray's  
face and had to quickly do a little misdirection himself. Glancing around  
a little desperately for a distraction, he noticed something stuck to  
the ceiling of the car with a small Christmas bow. He reached up, touched  
it, and realized what it was. His eyebrows lifted.  
        "Mistletoe?"  
        Ray glanced up and grinned.  
"Frannie strikes again. Didn't notice she left it."  
        Fraser  
stared at the mistletoe, then at Ray, then the mistletoe, then at Ray  
again, frowning. Ray looked back at him, frowning too.  
        "What?"  
        Fraser couldn't very  
well admit he was jealous that Francesca had been here, in Ray's car,  
with a sprig of mistletoe, couldn't admit he wanted badly to know if  
it had been used in the traditional manner, and not because he was desirous  
of kissing Francesca. Not at all. Nor could he admit he would rather  
like to use it in the traditional manner himself, right now, with Ray.  
So he sat there, tongue-tied, and feeling his face slowly turn the same  
color as his tunic, unable to think of a single coherent thing to say.  
Ray looked at him, looked at the road, looked at him, and then he was  
steering the car over into a mostly-empty parking lot, putting it into  
neutral, and setting the brake.  
        "Fraser?"  
        Swallow. Moisten the  
tongue. Loosen the jaw. There. "Yes, Ray?"  
        "Um.  
. . You know it's, uh, bad luck, right? To not use the . . . stuff."  
        Either his brain was  
on holiday or that hadn't made any sense. "Excuse me?"  
        "The stuff."  
Ray pointed upward in that odd way he had, using both index and little  
fingers.  
        "The  
mistletoe?" Fraser asked, just to be sure.  
        "Yeah.  
The mistletoe. Bad luck."  
        Ah.  
Ray was telling him that he had kissed Francesca. Well, that was his  
business, although they would need to be circumspect, considering their  
relative roles. "Ray, it's perfectly all right. I certainly have  
no objections." Well, he did, but Ray didn't need to know that.  
        Ray looked shocked.  
"You don't?"  
        Oh  
dear. Ray must have somehow gotten the impression that Fraser was interested  
in Francesca. He had to put that to rest at once. He shook his head.  
"None at all. After all, we are talking about two consenting adults,  
are we not?"  
        "Uh.  
. . yeah. Yeah we are. I just never . . . I mean I thought you were,  
I mean with Frannie an' all . . ."  
        "Oh  
no, Ray. I've no interest at all in Francesca. She's like a sister  
to me. All women are, after all, our sisters."  
        Ray's  
eyes got wider. "Sisters?"  
        "That's  
right."  
        "Uh  
hunh. Okay. Well. That. . . ah. . . you sure you don't mind?"  
        "Quite certain,  
Ray. You should just, as they say, go for it."  
        Ray  
stared at him for a moment longer, shook his head, and grinned, looking  
rather as if that Ed McMahon person had come to his door with a large  
check. "Go for it, hunh? Okay, Fraser. I'm goin'."  
        And  
then Ray was reaching out, and pulling him over toward him, and before  
Fraser could quite figure out what he was doing, their lips met.

* * *  


  
        It was definitely Christmas,  
and his present was all wrapped up in very seasonal colors. Ray might  
not have much experience with men, okay fine, he had zip experience with  
men, but he damned well knew how to kiss. And it couldn't be that different.  
A mouth was a mouth. Two lips, teeth, a tongue. But what lips, what  
teeth, what . . . he couldn't resist. He had to find out, even if it  
got him punched. He cupped that square jaw in both hands and coaxed  
those surprisingly soft, warm lips apart and ohgod. Tongue. That was.  
. . that was Fraser's tongue, tentatively slicking against his own.  
        Fraser wasn't fighting.  
Wasn't going to punch him for being forward. Was, in fact, leaning closer,  
one hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, fingers warm against  
his skin beneath the collar of his coat, and vest, and shirt. A tingle  
that went right down to his toes spread through him. It was the strangest  
thing. Why should a hand on his neck suddenly seem like the sexiest,  
most intimately erotic touch he'd ever felt? He didn't know. But it  
did. He angled his body, trying to get closer, hands sliding down from  
Fraser's jaw to his chest, trying to work through layers of protective  
clothing, desperate to feel more. Suddenly Fraser turned his head, breaking  
the kiss.  
        "Ray.  
. . Ray, please . . ." he gasped.  
        Belatedly  
noticing that his partner was struggling to pull away, Ray released him  
instantly, sitting back, sucking in a deep breath, staring at the metronome  
sweep of the wipers against the windshield. Jesus! What the hell had  
gotten into him? A friendly buss under the mistletoe was not an excuse  
to play tonsil-hockey and try to rip your best friend's clothes off.  
Or maybe former best friend, now.  
        "Sorry,  
Fraser. Guess I got a little. . . carried away."  
        There  
was a moment of silence. Well, not quite silence. They were both breathing  
pretty heavy. Ray hoped Fraser's heavy breathing was due to anger control  
efforts, because he really didn't want to be punched, even if he deserved  
it, and then some. When Fraser finally spoke, he sounded really strange.  
Polite, but strange.  
        "That's  
quite all right, Ray."  
        "No,  
it's not. Just 'cause you said you wouldn't mind if I . . ." He  
couldn't quite say it out loud. Doing it was easier than saying it.  
"Well, anyway, I took advantage. Sorry. You can punch me if you  
want."  
        "Why  
would I want to do that?"  
        "Well,  
'cause I went too far. 'Cause you didn't want me to do . . . that."  
        "I don't recall  
saying I didn't want you to do that."  
        Ray  
really wanted to look at him, really needed to look at him, but he couldn't  
do it. He just couldn't stand to see the disappointment and pain he  
knew was there. He knew Fraser was just humoring him, trying to make  
him feel better about being a jerk. Typically Fraser. He knew that  
as sure as he knew his name was Ray Vecchi. . . er, Kowalski. "Look,  
I know you didn't. You were tryin' to get away, had to practically whap  
me to get me off you."  
        "Ray,  
I simply needed to change position, and couldn't, the way we were, well,  
ah . . . sitting."  
        "What?"  
        "The handbrake was  
digging into my thigh, making it somewhat difficult to enjoy the situation,  
what with that sensation being rather painful."  
        It  
took about three run-throughs of that sentence in his head for Ray to  
decide he'd really heard that correctly. He chanced a quick glance at  
Fraser, whose color seemed a little high but who seemed to not be mad-looking.  
In fact, he had an odd, almost hopeful expression on his face. Hopeful?  
Combined with that sentence?  
        "Uh,  
you tellin' me if the brake hadn't been there, you wouldn'ta stopped  
me?"  
        Fraser  
flicked his fingers against his eyebrow, cleared his throat, cracked  
his neck, and tugged at his collar. Whoa. All four. Bigtime nervous  
here. Ray had never seen him do all four in a row before. Finally he  
spoke.  
        "Yes,  
Ray. Precisely."  
        Ray  
felt his mouth drop open in shock, and shut it again. Holy cow. Fraser  
hadn't minded. Not only had Fraser not minded, Fraser had kind of enjoyed  
it. Well, aside from the handbrake thing. "Oh. So, um, you .  
. . wanna try it again? Without the brake?"  
        There  
was no verbal response to his question, but there was a very physical  
one. Fraser leaned over, looking like he was about to tell him a really  
good secret, and then they were doing it again. Kissing. Funny, Fraser's  
mouth didn't look that big from the outside. Maybe it was just 'cause  
Ray was used to kissing Stella and she had a smaller mouth. Fraser's  
tongue was, not surprisingly, very inquisitive, almost agile. They'd  
said he was agile. They hadn't been kidding.  
        Ray  
shifted, leaning into the kiss, reaching out to pull Fraser closer, and--  
ouch! Damn it. This time it was him with the damned brake poking into  
him. Crap. Making out in cars was a really bad idea. He started to  
shift away, only to have Fraser's hand come over the brake lever, covering  
it, softening its bite into Ray's thigh and incidentally bringing that  
broad, warm hand within ames ace of his crotch. Which he noticed. A  
lot. All the sudden his normally comfortable jeans were waaaay too tight.  
He moaned. He actually moaned. He was kissing Fraser, in the car, with  
a hard on. Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the candlestick. He  
was losing his mind. He moaned again.  
        Fraser  
released him with seeming reluctance. "Was that . . . are you all  
right, Ray?"  
        Hooboy.  
How to answer that? Work, brain. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good, Fraser.  
Real good. You?"  
        "I'm,  
ah, 'good' as well."  
        Oh,  
was he ever. Ray tried to think. They'd done about all they could do  
in the front seat of the GTO in the middle of a public parking lot.  
Of course there was always the back seat. . . but it was snowing, and  
there was Dief. So back to Plan A, with a few modifications, he hoped.  
Somehow 'The Grinch' suddenly seemed much less interesting.  
        "Um,  
we probably oughtta go to my place, get out of the weather," he  
offered.  
        "That  
would seem to be a wise idea," Fraser said, sounding amazingly calm.  
        "You good to go?"  
        Fraser looked at him,  
eyes warm, lips parted . . . shit, do not even think about it.  
        "I'm  
good to go, Ray."  
        Good  
to go. There was a lot in those words. A lot more than had been said  
aloud. Trying to ignore his increasingly insistent erection, Ray fumbled  
for the keys in the ignition turning them, grinding the starter since  
the car was already running. He winced, took off the brake, and they  
set off again. God in heaven. All this time and he hadn't figured out  
that Fraser was gay, or well, maybe bi, whatever. Was he stupid or what?  
The man ran like a cheetah from nearly every woman he knew, and Ray couldn't  
figure it out until Fraser hit him over the head with it? How dumb could  
one guy be? But he had a clue now, and he was damned well gonna use  
it.

* * *  


  
        Fraser had never been  
so grateful for a miscommunication in his life. He would never have  
discovered that Ray wanted to kiss him had he not made the assumption  
that Ray was talking about himself and Francesca, not about himself and.  
. . himself. He wondered briefly if the beating in the alley had addled  
his brain and he was actually in the hospital dreaming all this. If  
so, he was going to 'go with it,' as Ray was fond of saying. A little  
fantasy never hurt anyone.  
        It  
certainly didn't feel, smell, or _taste_ like a fantasy. The flavors  
of cider, whiskey, spice, and Ray still lingered from their kiss, and  
the warm, natural scent of his partner seemed to fill his senses headily.  
He was intensely thankful that Ray did not favor cologne, since that  
meant he always smelled like himself, with faint hints of soap and shampoo,  
which was infinitely preferable to the cloying aroma of perfume.  
        Good Lord. He'd kissed  
Ray. Ray had kissed him. With apparent relish. Had wanted to do it  
again. Had wanted. . . more, as evidenced by the way his hands had burrowed  
beneath his coat and attempted to unfasten his tunic. Envisioning those  
hands succeeding, baring him, lips against his skin, accompanied by the  
erotically- charged rasp of stubble, Fraser had to close his eyes and  
practice biofeedback techniques to bring his excitement down before he  
embarrassed himself.  
        They  
were going to Ray's apartment. Privacy. A couch. A bed. Dared he  
think of that? No. It was too soon, of course. This would have to  
be taken slowly, cautiously, to make sure he noticed any hint of reluctance.  
It would take day, weeks, perhaps even months. But oh, how he wished  
that were not so. He'd wanted Ray for so long, had driven himself slowly  
toward madness imagining circumstances in which they could possibly come  
together. He was ashamed to admit that amnesia had been a common scenario,  
but this was so much better. A fully cognizant and still attracted Ray  
was infinitely preferable.  
        An  
awkward movement from the driver's seat caught Fraser's eye and he snuck  
a glance at his partner. In the staccato flare of the streetlights they  
passed he saw Ray tugging at the inseam of his jeans, adjusting the garment  
over a substantial erection. A rush of heat shot through him, achingly  
powerful. Ray was hard. For him. Because of him.  
        He  
experienced a momentary burst of insanity and actually thought about  
reaching over and unzipping those jeans, freeing the hard, heated flesh  
trapped beneath unforgiving denim. His mouth watered. No. No, you  
are unhinged, just as Ray always says. Control yourself. A kiss does  
not mean more. Not necessarily. 'But it _could_ ,' his traitorous  
id whispered.  
        Neither  
of them spoke. The silence was meaningful, but strangely not uncomfortable.  
Finally Ray pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, eased  
into a space, and they were there. The silence took on new dimension  
with the absence of engine noise, heater fan, and the sound of tires  
on slushy pavement. Ray rubbed his hands on his thighs. Were they damp?  
Fraser's fingers curled, testing his own palms. Yes. Faintly. They  
sat a little longer. Finally Diefenbaker whined from the back seat,  
clearly confused by this odd behavior. Why weren't they leaving the  
car's cramped confines and going to Ray's apartment, with its intriguing  
kitchen and comfortable furniture? As if that whine had broken a spell,  
Ray pulled his keys from the ignition.  
        "Okay,  
well, we're here. C'mon. Let's go in. It's cold out here."  
        Truthfully Fraser had  
no idea what temperature it was. He was warm. Hot in fact. He nodded.  
"As you say."  
        On  
the brief walk up to the apartment Fraser found himself surprised that  
they weren't thawing the snow on the ground around them, simply from  
the energy they were both radiating. It was nearly palpable. He'd always  
thought the 'heat of passion' was simply a metaphor. Perhaps it was  
not. Perhaps he ought not be thinking about passion. Ray unlocked the  
apartment and opened the door. Diefenbaker bounded in, clearly pleased.  
Fraser hesitated, and saw Ray flicker a glance at him, shift his gaze  
to the floor, then lift it again, intently focused.  
        "Nothing  
happens you don't want to, Frase."  
        'Oh  
God. Don't leave this up to me,' Fraser thought desperately. 'I don't  
know how.'  
        Ray's  
gaze softened. "Me neither," he said a little sheepishly.  
        Until that moment Fraser  
hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud. He blushed, and stepped into  
the apartment. It did ease his mind somewhat that Ray had not seemed  
upset by that comment. Also that Ray was, apparently, as ignorant as  
he, at least in the etiquette of this particular situation. He removed  
his coat as the door closed behind him, heard Ray doing the same, tossing  
his jacket onto an empty chair. Fraser hung his coat neatly in the closet  
next to the door, placing his hat on the shelf above it. Ray cleared  
his throat.  
        "So,  
I, uh, got some stuff from the deli. Got some videos. Jimmy Stewart,  
and Dr. Seuss. Figured I couldn't go wrong there. Don't know what  
you wanna . . ."  
        "Ray,"  
Fraser interrupted his recital gently. "Would you . . . I mean,  
that is if you would be . . ."  
        "Yeah,"  
Ray interrupted right back. "I would. A lot. If you would."  
        "I would, very much."  
        It came to him that their  
conversation was actually quite amusing, the way they were both dancing  
around having to actually say what they meant. But Ray always had been  
adept at dancing, and he was not too bad himself, under the right circumstances.  
        Ray grinned suddenly,  
shaking his head. "This is so weird. But then, I always liked  
weird. C'mere."  
        And  
like that they were in each other's arms, and mouths were meeting, and  
it was just as shockingly wonderful as it had been in the car, more,  
perhaps, because now they could touch full-length, which was even better.  
He'd kissed before, but never so freely, with such a lack of concern  
for his partner's fragility. Because Ray, for all his slenderness, was  
anything but fragile. In fact, Fraser found himself flinching a little  
from the strength of the hold in which he was enveloped. Ordinarily  
it wouldn't have bothered him, but he was still tender from his encounter  
with Warfield's associates. Despite his attempt to hide his discomfort,  
Ray noticed the flinch. He pulled back.  
        "Frase?"  
        "It's nothing.  
Just that one of my buttons was pressing into a bruise."  
        "Bruise?"  
Ray looked blank for a moment, then frowned. "You got bruises?"  
        "Just a few. From  
the other night."  
        Ray  
looked at his face, eyes tracking from the healing abrasions on his cheek  
to the bruise on his temple. His hands curled into fists as his mouth  
thinned. "I'd like to find those sons of. . ."  
        "Ray,"  
Fraser said softly, shaking his head.  
        Ray's  
eyes met his, and he sighed. "Yeah, I know. You can take care  
of yourself. I get it. Okay, outta the red thing. I want you comfy.  
No brake. No buttons. Just us. And if you hurt, you tell me, right?"  
        Fraser nodded, fingers  
feeling strangely thick as he fumbled at his buttons. Ray watched him  
for a moment, then shook his head. "Follow me."  
        A  
little nervously, Fraser followed Ray to the bedroom. He tried very  
hard not to look at the bed as Ray went to a bureau, digging in drawers  
until he finally found what he'd been searching for. He held out a wadded  
bundle of heather-gray fabric.  
        "Here.  
Go change in the bathroom."  
        Fraser  
took the proffered garment and headed for the bathroom, feeling distressingly  
relieved. He did want to be . . . naked. With Ray. There. He'd thought  
it. However, undressing in front of him, well, he wasn't quite ready  
for that yet. Or for being completely naked, despite his fantasies.  
One step at a time.  
        Wondering  
if there was any possible way something of Ray's would fit him, he reached  
for the item Ray had given him. It turned out to be a pair of athletic  
shorts which looked more than adequate to his substantially broader physique.  
Curiously he checked the label, found they were XXL's. Musing on why  
Ray possessed a pair of shorts that would probably go around him twice,  
Fraser unbuttoned his tunic, much easier now without an audience, and  
unfastened his braces, then removed his boots, socks, and jodhpurs.  
Pulling on the shorts, he found they were even loose on him, his own  
boxers showing a good two inches above the sagging waistline.  
        Frowning,  
he tucked the bottom of his henley down between the two layers so it  
looked a trifle neater. Turning, he caught a glimpse of himself in the  
long mirror that backed the bathroom door and had to smile. Even he  
realized that he looked ridiculous. He pushed his sleeves up above his  
elbows, and untucked the shirt again, letting it hang over the loose  
waist. Better. He felt rather slovenly but at least he didn't look  
like he'd grabbed the wrong footlocker at roll call. He looked . . .  
casual. As odd as that was for him. Gathering his clothing, he took  
a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out.  
        The  
bedroom was empty, and the apartment mostly dark, a single table lamp  
glowed on a low setting. There was music on the stereo, something instrumental  
and not annoying. The chili-pepper lights around the pass-through were  
lit, shedding a soft ruby glow over the man who was busy in the kitchen.  
Placing his carefully folded uniform on a corner of the dining table,  
Fraser turned to find Ray coming out of the kitchen holding two mugs.  
Ray stopped, looked at him, and smiled, then held out one of the mugs.  
Fraser took it, sniffing. Tea. The astringent scent was vaguely familiar,  
not a standard commercial brand.  
        "It's  
not the bark stuff you like," Ray said diffidently. "I couldn't  
find that at the store, got twig tea instead. Bark, twigs, they're close,  
right?"  
        Feeling  
a warm glow at the thought that Ray had actually tried to find bark tea  
for him, Fraser sipped the brew appreciatively. While he didn't normally  
indulge in caffeine, perhaps a little extra energy wasn't a bad idea  
tonight. "Yes, they're close," he said, because in principle  
Ray was correct, if not in specific. The strong, faintly bitter, but  
surprisingly mellow flavor stirred a memory. "It's very good.  
Kukicha, from Japan, right? Cured in iron kettles?"  
        Ray  
grinned. "I shoulda known you'd know. Yeah. It's not half bad  
with a little sugar."  
        Knowing  
how Ray usually took his coffee, Fraser suspected there was more than  
a 'little' sugar in Ray's cup. But that was all right, Ray might need  
the extra energy as well. He couldn't believe he had just thought that.  
He was glad of the dim lighting, knowing he was blushing. Ray studied  
him, and smiled.  
        "You  
look good, Fraser. Relaxed. Don't think I ever seen you look relaxed  
before."  
        In  
truth he was far from relaxed, but he knew Ray meant his clothes, not  
his body. "Thank you for the shorts. I was surprised they fit.  
Aren't they a trifle large for you? "  
        Ray  
made an odd sort of snorting sound. "Yeah. Gag gift. When I got  
divorced the guys at my old division gave 'em to me, said I didn't have  
to keep my girlish figure to impress Stella anymore."  
        Fraser  
absorbed that, and put his hand on Ray's shoulder, squeezing gently in  
reassurance. "That was cruel, Ray."  
        Ray  
shook his head. "Nah, they didn't mean to be. They just were trying  
to be funny. I knew that." He turned away and went to the couch,  
putting his mug on the coffee-table as he sat down and patted the couch  
next to him. "Park it."  
        Fraser  
sat, sipped from his mug again.  
        "You  
wanna watch a movie?" Ray asked after a moment.  
        Fraser  
put down his mug, carefully, next to Ray's. Nearly touching. He turned  
back to his partner. "No."  
        Ray  
studied him, swallowed, moistened his lips. Mesmerized by that unconscious  
flicker of tongue, Fraser watched him take a breath, and speak.  
        "Oh.  
So, um, you wanna . . ."  
        "Yes."  
        Ray grinned, a quick,  
amused flash of teeth. "Yeah. Oh yeah." He chuckled. "Guess  
we are guys, after all." He leaned forward again, finding Fraser's  
mouth with his own.  
        Sweet.  
Sugar sweet, and tea, and Ray. Fraser licked, learning that flavor,  
imprinting it in his memory. The corner of his mouth hurt a little,  
the split was mostly healed, but the bruise lingered. He ignored the  
pain. The other sensations he was experiencing far outweighed that slight  
discomfort. Lifting a hand, he skimmed his fingers across Ray's triangular  
jawline, feeling the rasp of perma-stubble on his fingertips, shivering  
a little in reaction, imagining that phenomenon on other responsive places.  
        He let his fingers  
slip higher, traced the curve of an ear, and felt Ray shiver this time.  
Ah. Sensitive ears. He filed that fact as he continued learning his  
partner in ways he'd never expected to be able to. Ray had a truly wonderful  
mouth, better than any woman he'd ever kissed. Surprisingly delicate,  
that tongue, touching lightly, sensually, in the inner curve of his lip,  
against his teeth, finally, finally against his own questing tongue.  
That slick slide made Fraser want to lay back and feel it on his throat,  
his chest . . . perhaps lower. He was getting braver, thinking these  
things was getting easier, now that he knew it was permitted. Permitted.  
Wanted. Needed. Yes.

 

* * *  


  
        Ray was in heaven. Kissing  
Fraser. A rumpled, casual, and unmistakably horny Fraser. He surely  
hadn't expected to find this in his stocking tonight. He was putting  
his all into these kisses, needing to make them memorable, needing Fraser  
to keep wanting him, wanting more. He shivered under Fraser's exploring  
hands, and decided to do a little exploring of his own.  
        Sliding  
a hand down his partner's chest, he barely skimmed a nipple beneath the  
gray cotton henley that almost matched the shorts. Even in borrowed  
gear the Mountie was coordinated. He'd have to work on that. The guy  
needed to learn how to relax. A smile curved his mouth against Fraser's.  
Relax. He knew some really good ways to relax. And he pretty much figured  
if they worked on him, they'd work on Fraser.  
        Why  
did it feel so weird all the sudden to be calling him Fraser? That was  
easy. Because he didn't usually make out with people with whom he was  
on a last-name basis. Reluctantly he dragged his mouth away from Fraser's,  
and the man was obviously just as reluctant because he almost didn't  
let go of Ray's lower lip, sucking at it until Ray put a finger up and  
broke the suction, at which point he started sucking on his finger, which  
sent a fist of excitement straight to his crotch and he almost groaned.  
        "Fraser? Hey, earth  
to Fraser!"  
        The  
tongue stroking his finger stopped, the suction released. Fraser looked  
at him, a little dazed. "Yes, Ray?" he managed after a swallow  
or two.  
        "Can  
I call you Ben?"  
        The  
smile that lit his partner's face was incandescent. He would kill for  
another smile like that. "Yes, Ray. I'd like that very much."  
        Ray grinned back. He  
couldn't have not smiled if he'd been at gunpoint. "Greatness,"  
he said, diving for that lopsided and reddened grin. Their lips met,  
and this time tongues were much less tentative. He slipped his hand  
up underneath the bottom of Ben's shirt, found skin, and stroked. Ben  
moaned. Yeah. Oh yeah. If fingers way above the waist got a moan,  
then this was gonna go just fine. But he wanted to touch more. Gradually  
he began to work the shirt higher, until it was up around Ben's ribs.  
Ray leaned forward, until Ben got the message and let Ray push him down  
onto the couch.  
        He  
wanted to see, as well as touch. It was the weirdest thing, but after  
all this time Ray could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen  
Fraser . . . Ben . . . anything less than fully clothed. He was normally  
so shy he simply never allowed anyone to see him in a state of complete  
undress, yet at the same time, he was so naive that he could yank down  
those damned suspenders and drop his pants in an impromptu strip-tease  
without the slightest hesitation. Ray was surprised he wasn't protesting  
the fact his midriff was currently exposed. He lifted his mouth from  
Ben's, pleased to hear him panting a little, and raised up a bit so he  
could see what his fingers were exploring. Silky skin, almost no body  
hair, pale, save for a dappling of peculiar shadows thrown by the chili-pepper  
lights. He shifted a little, moving his hand, and noticed that the shadows  
didn't change. That was odd. Shadows always changed with movement .  
. . oh. He sat up.  
        "Ben,  
would you take your shirt off?" He asked it with deliberate casualness,  
not wanting to scare him off.  
        Fraser  
blinked at him as if he'd just asked the question in Mongolian, though  
knowing Fraser, he probably spoke Mongolian. Then he sat up too, slowly,  
and Ray saw the slight downward pull of his mouth as he did. He carefully  
didn't react to that sign of discomfort. Fraser cleared his throat.  
        "You want me  
to remove my shirt?"  
        Ray  
nodded.  
        Fraser swallowed, but  
his hands went to the hem of his henley. He hesitated, lifted it an  
inch, put it back, then his mouth tightened and he tried again, this  
time getting it all the way off in one slightly awkward movement. Ray  
looked, then closed his eyes, fighting fear, and fury, and an ache that  
brought tears to his eyes.  
        "Jesus  
Christ, Ben," he breathed, opening his eyes again. "You shoulda  
let me take you to the hospital."  
        Ben  
looked down at himself, then lifted his gaze to Ray's once more. "They're  
just bruises."  
        Ray  
scrubbed his hands over his face, up into his hair, frustrated. "Ben,  
they could have _killed_ you. Looks like they were halfway there,  
maybe more. And I let it happen, goddamn it. I let it happen. I left  
you there alone."  
        "You  
had your own job, you were working," he said quietly, forgiving.  
        "I should have been  
there. We're partners, damn it. I had to almost lose you before I'd  
buck the system. That's wrong. Christ, I suck!"  
        "Ray,  
you don't suck. Please calm down." Fraser was starting to sound  
distressed.  
        Ray  
started to push himself off the couch, to stand up and pace, but Fraser  
caught his arm in a surprisingly strong grip and refused to let him move.  
Ray looked at the floor, miserable. "How can you stand to be here  
with me, how can you even think of letting me touch you?"  
        "I  
want to be here," Ben said softly. "I want you to touch me.  
Ray, I lo . . . "  
        Ray  
felt a tremor in the fingers on his arm as Ben's sentence halted abruptly.  
He discovered he was holding his breath. Oh please, please say it.  
Please. But this was Benton Fraser, and he didn't talk about things  
like this, so it wasn't ever going to happen, so stop wishing for it  
. . . a sudden, sharp intake of breath interrupted his thoughts, then  
Ben spoke  
        "Ray,  
I love you."  
        Ray's  
head snapped up, his eyes locked with Ben's. And damn, there it was.  
In his eyes, in his face. Truth. And terror. A full house, laid out  
on the table. No bluffing. Ray pulled Ben into his arms, holding hard,  
felt him shudder as his arms went around Ray in return, holding him just  
as hard. Then he realized he hadn't said anything back, and he tried  
to pull away, but Ben wouldn't let him, and he was very strong. He settled  
for turning his head, so his lips were against Ben's ear.  
        "I  
love you, Ben." He wasn't going to say "I love you, too."  
He knew how empty that could feel, like it had been prompted, an afterthought.  
No way was he going to let Ben feel that way. "Loved you for a  
long time. Didn't think I could tell you. Slipped once, had to cover  
it up. Didn't want to give you the wrong idea."  
        "You  
were very persuasive. I didn't suspect at all."  
        "I  
know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry I wasn't there for you, sorry I  
didn't tell you, sorry . . ."  
        "Ray?"  
        "Yeah?"  
        Fraser drew back a little,  
looked into his eyes. "Shut up."  
        Ray  
started to get offended, then saw the gleam in Ben's eyes, and thought  
better of it. "Understood," he said, in that same smooth tone  
that Ben always used.  
        Ben  
smiled, and the ache inside Ray eased a little, though he still hurt  
when he looked at the bruises that stood out on his partner's pale skin  
like tattoos of strange, dark flowers. He leaned forward, and brushed  
his lips against the one that bloomed below his left nipple. Fraser's  
breath caught. Ray moved his mouth higher, just a finger width or two,  
stroked his tongue across the rose-dark disc of nipple, felt it pebble  
beneath his lips, heard the caught breath become a gasp. And it came  
to him how he could apologize without words.  
        Searching  
out another bruise, Ray feathered his lips against it, then another,  
trying to take the pain of each one with his mouth, searching out every  
mark, not matter how faint, always careful to use the lightest pressure  
so it wouldn't hurt. After a few minutes of that, Ben was flat on his  
back on the couch, Ray half lying above him, kissing and licking all  
over that big, beautiful body. And who would have guessed the Mountie  
would be so damned . . . vocal? He was moaning, and groaning, and ohgod,  
grunting like they were both naked and seconds from liftoff. It was  
the most erotic thing Ray had ever heard. He was hard as steel, and  
with his hips between Fraser's thighs it was nearly impossible not to  
rock against the matching hardness he felt beneath him. Only the worry  
that there were more bruises under those baggy shorts kept him in line.  
        But the couch was  
just not big enough for this. It simply wasn't designed for two adult  
males to make out on. After the third time they nearly fell off, Ray  
sat up.  
        "That's  
it. That is enough," he said definitively.  
        Ben's  
eyes opened in alarm. "That's it?" he echoed, sounding, and  
looking almost comically disappointed.  
        Ray  
realized what he must think, and chuckled. "Not that. Relax.  
We ain't had nearly enough of that. But we are definitely done with  
the couch."  
        He  
stood up, wincing as a crease in his jeans pinched his erection painfully.  
He reached down and adjusted. Better. When he looked back at Ben, he  
found the Mountie's gaze was pinned to his crotch like a butterfly on  
a collecting board. His tongue curled across his lips in a fashion Ray  
could only describe as lascivious, and then those smoke-blue eyes lifted  
to his, wide and bemused. Tongue, again. Swallow.  
        "Good  
lord, Ray. That's . . ."  
        Ray  
felt his face heat. "Don't. Just come on."  
        "As  
you wish," Fraser agreed, coming to his feet with surprising speed.  
        Ray's gaze slid  
down his partner's torso, and he was annoyed to find that the overlarge  
shorts were quite concealing, though he knew from the feel of it pressed  
against him that Ben had nothing to be embarrassed about in that region.  
Ben cleared his throat, and Ray looked up and grinned.  
        "Turnabout's  
fair play," he said, leading the way to the bedroom, blessing whatever  
premonition had led him to change the sheets that morning. He yanked  
the covers down, baring the pristine expanse of slate blue sheets. His  
mom had great taste in bed-linens. The color was nearly a match for  
Ben's eyes. God, what a sappy thing to think. But he liked that he'd  
thought it.  
        "Ray?"  
        He turned, eyebrows raised.  
"Yeah?"  
        Ben's  
face was faintly flushed, his eyes on the floor. "Do you think  
you could, ah, that is, would you mind terribly . . ."  
        "The  
only thing I'd mind terribly is if you walked out that door, Ben. So  
whatever it is, yes, I will."  
        "Pleasetakeoffyourshirt?"  
        Ooh. All in one word.  
Still said 'please.' He grinned. "I'll go you one better."  
He stripped his shirt and vest off, dropping them to the floor, then  
shucked his jeans with a sigh of relief. Damn, it had been getting tight  
in there. The knit boxerbriefs he was wearing were stretchy enough to  
be comfortable even now, but denim was just pitiless. A little self-conscious,  
he glanced at Ben, saw he'd turned away, and smiled, shaking his head.  
Shy. Amazing.  
        He  
noticed suddenly that there were more bruises on Ben's back. Almost  
rectangular ones, a good four inches wide across the backs of Ben's thighs.  
Another, similar, mark marred the small of his back just above the waist  
of his boxers, which showed above the shorts. Fraser looked like a skateboarder  
in those baggy things with his boxers showing. That momentary amusement  
faded as he saw that just below Ben's left shoulderblade there was a  
bruise that looked alarmingly like a shoe print. Above that, across  
the tops of his shoulders, another rectangular bruise stretched their  
entire breadth.  
        Ray  
almost slipped back into a fit of self-revulsion, but then he remembered  
how upset that had made Ben, and he dragged himself up out of it again.  
Instead he padded across the room, glad he'd taken his shoes off much  
earlier, and dropped to his knees behind Ben, pressing his mouth against  
first one bruised thigh, then the other. Ben shivered, and gasped.  
Ray licked, feeling the roughness of hair against his tongue, strange  
that, but he tasted good; clean, fresh skin. Ben moaned. Ray slid his  
arms around Ben's hips, supporting him as he repeated his actions on  
the other side, then straightened a little to trail a series of kisses  
across the bruise in the small of his back.  
        As  
he did, he realized suddenly that the only thing that could have left  
that mark was a two-by-four wielded like a baseball bat. God. Ray shuddered.  
He could have lost Ben. Lost him before they'd gotten here, to this  
moment. He would have died if that had happened. Just shut down inside  
and died. There would have been no reason to live.  
        "Ben,  
I love you," he whispered against that gaudy green and purple skin.  
"I love you."  
        "Ray.  
. ." Fraser moaned, shuddering. The emotion in his voice was almost  
tangible.  
        Ray stood,  
stooped to layer kisses over that shoe print, then to soothe the bruise  
along Ben's shoulders with this tongue, lingering at the base of his  
neck until he felt Ben swaying in his arms, moaning his name in an almost  
continuous stream-- 'rayrayrayrayray' only without the usual tinge of  
affectionate exasperation. He lifted his head, and Ben turned in his  
arms, and their lips met, and meshed, and he knew he had to get them  
to the bed before they ended up on the floor. He wasn't about to let  
that happen, not with the state Ben was in. So he did the most natural  
thing he could think of. He slid his right arm around Ben's back, carefully,  
took Ben's right hand in his left, and danced them over to it.  
        Fraser didn't even try  
to lead. And he let Ray dip him onto the bed without hesitation. It  
was amazing how pliable Ben was in this state. Ray had never seen him  
so relaxed. Well, except for one part. That was anything but relaxed.  
He never would have guessed that Fraser could be so responsive, so completely  
uninhibited in his sexuality. Of course just the fact that he was here,  
in Ray's bed, and hadn't run screaming the opposite direction from that  
first kiss was miraculous in and of itself, and he supposed after that  
he had no business being surprised by anything else. Except maybe the  
fact that he hadn't run either. That all the months' worth of internal  
protests to himself that he wouldn't really like it if it happened were  
wrong, wrong, wrong. He liked it. He loved it. It felt dead perfect  
right.  
        He saw a bruise  
on the outside of Ben's knee that he'd missed, and went for it. Noticed  
a small scrape across his thigh, a few inches higher. Kissed that as  
well. From there he could see the rise of Ben's erection beneath that  
soft gray fabric. And couldn't resist. He took those hips in his hands,  
leaned down, and put his mouth over that rise. Ben practically did a  
sit up, and Ray rode him like a bronco until he settled again, panting.  
He lifted his head, grinning.  
        "Liked  
that?"  
        "Oh,  
lord," Ben breathed in a voice that sounded like he'd found religion.  
"Ray, please."  
        Ray  
didn't have to be asked twice. He slipped his hands beneath two elasticized  
waistbands and carefully stretched the fabric past straining flesh.  
"Lift up," he asked, and was obeyed, and then there was nothing  
between him and Fraser but air. And 'Oh lord' was exactly true. Beautiful.  
Different. He grinned.  
        "Looks  
like you got the cold-weather package."  
        Ben  
looked down at him, obviously puzzled, and Ray chuckled.  
        "You'll  
see. Later." He hoped. Depended on how well this went. He was  
thankful to find no new bruises had been hiding beneath that fabric,  
and he ran his nose along the soft, fair skin of Ben's hip, wondering  
just how to approach this. He'd kind of assumed that touching Ben would  
be like touching himself, but it wouldn't be. He didn't quite know how  
to deal with a foreskin, though it was kind of . . . cute. Then he had  
an idea. He found one of Ben's hands and brought it to his lips, kissing  
his fingers.  
        "Show  
me," he said against his palm.  
        "Show  
you what?" Ben asked, looking confused.  
        "How  
to touch you. What you like. What feels good."  
        He'd  
never seen Fraser blush quite that dark before. It almost looked painful.  
Deciding maybe it was time to show Ben why he'd asked, he got to his  
knees and peeled off his undershorts, tossing them aside, then stretched  
out next to Ben. "See?"  
        There  
was a moment of silence, then Ben cleared his throat. "That's.  
. . well . . . you're quite . . . quite impressive."  
        Ray  
sighed. "Not fishing for compliments, Ben. Notice anything different?"  
        Another silence. "Ah.  
Yes. I see."  
        "That's  
why I need to know what works for you."  
        "I  
would imagine the procedure is much the same, there's not that much difference."  
        "Still, don't wanna  
get it wrong," Ray said, embarrassed by his ignorance.  
        Ben  
turned toward him, his hands coming up to frame his face, storm-blue  
eyes locked with his own. "Nothing you do could be wrong,"  
he said quietly, and then they were kissing again.  
        So  
sweet. So good. So damned easy. Fraser's hands slid down to his hips,  
shifted him closer, closer, until their bodies moved together, legs tangling,  
arms enfolding. They matched. Chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh  
to thigh, groin to groin. Ben groaned, thrusting against him. God that  
felt good. Ray pushed back, closing his eyes, reveling in the slide  
and catch of sweaty skin against skin. Again. Again. Maybe he didn't  
need to worry so much about technique. Maybe some things were just natural.  
Like this.  
        Ray  
was shaking, and suddenly, startlingly close. Being here, like this,  
with Ben, was overwhelming. Completely. A few more undulations, a little  
more moisture-- the hot slickness of pre-ejaculate. Ben rolled onto  
his back, pulling Ray over him, spreading his thighs so their bodies  
could mold even more tightly together, so their erections could align  
even more closely. Their desultory thrusting grew more rhythmic, more  
intense, and Ben's husky and maddening moan became a sigh and there was  
a flood of wet heat between them. Need, desire, and love exploded through  
his body in a savage flash and Ray shuddered, feeling himself falling,  
falling over the edge, and he was coming, with Ben's name on his lips.

* * *  


  
        Fraser came to awareness  
slowly from the depths of sleep. He smelled food-scents, mingled, so  
it was hard to identify any one specific smell without more concentration  
than he currently possessed. He was warm, and deliciously comfortable.  
More comfortable than he could recall having felt in a very long time.  
Which meant that wherever he was, it was definitely not on his cot at  
the Consulate.  
        He  
shifted his fingers over the firm surface beneath them, felt the smooth  
weave of good cotton sheets. Assuredly not at the Consulate, where wool  
would have met his touch. Besides, he would never be able to sleep in  
such a wanton sprawl on that narrow berth. And beneath the scent of  
food, an earthier, more primitive fragrance stirred his senses, bringing  
with it memories of flesh on flesh, of sweat, and need, and pleasure.  
And he knew where he was, and why he was, and with whom, and he nearly  
cried.  
        Although he  
was alone in Ray's bed, he could hear his partner moving about in the  
other room, hear him humming softly under his breath, occasionally singing  
a phrase before switching back to humming. The sound reassured him,  
relaxed him. He knew Ray well enough to know that if he were having  
second thoughts about the previous night's events, he would not be singing.  
Nor would there be those tantalizing food scents in the air. His stomach  
growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the party last night,  
and that had been some time ago.  
        He opened his eyes  
and looked at the alarm clock on Ray's nightstand. He blinked, focused  
again. The display didn't change. Eight twenty-eight. Good lord, even  
Ray was already awake! For a moment he almost panicked, thinking he  
was going to be late for work, then he remembered what day it was and  
relaxed again, feeling wickedly self-indulgent.  
        Movement  
at the door caught his eye and he looked up to find Ray there, watching  
him. Their eyes met and they stared at each other, unspeaking, until  
Ray started to grin that impossible-to-resist grin of his and Fraser  
found himself grinning back like a fool. He sat up and started to get  
out of bed, only to have Ray hold out a hand in a stop-signal, as if  
he were directing traffic on a busy street.  
        "No!  
No, stay there, okay?"  
        "I  
really should take Dief out . . ."  
        "Already  
done. And I fed him, too. Just stay, all right?"  
        Fraser  
nodded and waited curiously while Ray disappeared for a moment, then  
returned holding a mug in one hand and a plate in the other. The plate  
held a chunk of french bread, torn raggedly in half, and a squat bottle  
of something with a butter knife in it, probably preserves, though the  
label faced away so he couldn't see what kind. Ray handed him the mug  
and he discovered it held the same kind of tea that Ray had made for  
him the night before. That surprised Ben a little as he'd thought he  
smelled chocolate. Then he remembered that Ray often put Smarties in  
his coffee, which explained that.  
        He  
sipped his tea as Ray sat down next to him on the bed, put the plate  
on his knees and started spreading whatever was in the jar on the bread.  
The spread was dark, some sort of berry, perhaps, and strangely thick  
and smooth in texture; maybe it was a fruit butter, not a preserve or  
jelly. Ray put down the knife and picked up the bread, tearing off a  
moderately sized piece.  
        "Open  
up."  
        "I  
can feed myself," Ben said, putting his mug down on the nightstand.  
        "Open up,"  
Ray insisted.  
        Feeling  
more than a little silly, Fraser complied, and Ray put the preserve-slathered  
bread in his mouth. He closed his mouth, started to chew, and stopped,  
both shocked and stimulated as the tastes and textures burst over his  
senses. Yeast and wheat and a little salt, but also chocolate-and-something.  
Creamy-sticky-smooth, on softly-chewy with a slightly crunchy crust.  
The combination was incredibly sensual. He chewed more slowly, savoring,  
all the time aware of Ray's amused gaze on him. Finally he swallowed.  
        "What is that?"  
he demanded.  
        Ray  
turned the jar so he could see the label. Chocolate hazelnut spread.  
His gaze skimmed over the nutritional content listing and his eyes widened.  
He said the first thing that came to mind. "That's not a very healthful  
breakfast, Ray."  
        Ray  
laughed. "Geez, Ben, it's Christmas morning! Relax! Unbend a little!  
Nobody's gonna cite you for poor nutrition, not today anyway. Besides,  
this is a traditional Christmas morning breakfast in the Kowalski family.  
You said you never had any traditions, so I figured it was time you got  
to experience some." He tore off another chunk and held it out,  
but when Fraser tried to take it from him he yanked it away. "Ah-ah.  
I get to do it."  
        "Is  
that traditional as well?" Fraser asked, amused.  
        "No.  
Well, maybe it is now. We can make our own traditions, right?"  
He waved the bite in front of Fraser's face again, and when he opened  
his mouth, slipped it inside.  
        It  
was good. Very good. Sinfully good. But not nearly as good as waking  
up in a comfortable bed after having had sex with one's partner, whom  
one has wanted to fuck senseless for months. Fraser felt his face heat,  
and was annoyed that he blushed just thinking that word, let alone saying  
it. He frowned.  
        "What's  
wrong?"  
        Ray's  
voice sounded anxious, and Fraser looked up. "Fuck."  
        Ray's  
eyes widened. "What, right now?"  
        Ben  
laughed. "No, no, I just wanted to see if I could say it."  
        "Oh. Darn. Uh,  
why? I mean, um, why'd you want to say it, not why not do it."  
        "I was just thinking  
it."  
        Ray's smile  
went wicked. "'Zat so?"  
        Ben's  
blush came back, and Ray chuckled.  
        "Here,  
have another bite."  
        He  
fed Ben another piece, and while he waited for Ben to finish chewing  
he scooped a fingerful of chocolate out of the jar and sucked it off.  
Watching him do that, Ben shuddered in reaction, his penis coming almost  
instantly erect.  
        "Ray  
. . . "  
        Ray  
looked up. "Yeah?"  
        "That's,  
ah, not very . . . sanitary." He couldn't believe he'd said that.  
It was the farthest possible thing from what he'd intended to say. It  
had just sort of slipped out.  
        Ray  
looked at him oddly, probably because his voice sounded rather strange,  
sort of husky, as if he had a cold. Then he looked at the jar. Then  
back at Ben. And he grinned. Evilly. And three fingers went into the  
jar, came out with half its contents, and within seconds those contents  
had been spread liberally over Fraser's chest and Ray was cleaning it  
off with his tongue. Ben fell back against the pillows with a moan,  
thinking it was terribly unfair that so far Ray had gotten to do all  
the licking.  
        Well,  
two could play at this game. He groped on the bed until he found the  
jar, and dug out his own handful, then realized he was at a severe disadvantage  
because Ray was fully clothed. One-handed, he grabbed the back of Ray's  
t-shirt and tried to get it off, without much success. Ray lifted his  
head, saw that chocolate-laden hand and grabbed it. Fraser tried to  
pull it away but Ray had a good grip on his wrist and he was hampered  
by trying to keep the chocolate off the sheets.  
        Ray  
managed to steal most of his ammunition, and then the sheets were yanked  
aside, and that hand was heading for his . . . oh good lord in heaven!  
Those long, long fingers were wrapped around him, liberally coating his  
erection with a substance probably never intended for that purpose.  
And Ray was curling over him, and his lips brushed once, twice, tongue  
flickering against heated, chocolate-smeared skin before he opened his  
mouth and took him inside, swallowing him whole. Someone made a very  
loud and truly lascivious sound, somewhere between a groan and a grunt.  
Fraser was shocked to realize it had been him.  
        But  
oh, it was so sweet, sweeter than the chocolate that still lingered in  
his mouth. Ray was sucking, then he was lifting, and Ben was terrified  
he was going to stop, and he reached down, fingers tangling in those  
soft blonde spikes, but oh. . . yes. Down again. Up. Then down. A  
pattern. A rhythm. His hips began to echo that rhythm. One of Ray's  
hands curled around the base of his shaft and began to stroke as he sucked,  
and Fraser shuddered and moaned as Ray's tongue swirled around him, found  
the tiny eye at the tip and teased it, before starting that incendiary  
suction again.  
        Spellbound,  
Fraser watched Ray make love to him with his mouth, and the expression  
on Ray's face and in his blue-gold eyes told him that it was lovemaking,  
not anything less. This was an even better gift than the photograph.  
This was real, and urgent, and _present_ , not a faint echo of the  
past. And then Ray's free hand was curving beneath him, gently caressing  
his testicles, which was delicious, but then those long fingers were  
pressing up into a place just behind them, and there was no more thought  
possible. He bucked and cried out, trying to pull Ray away from him,  
but it was too late and the pulses were shuddering through him, even  
as Ray kept making it go on longer, and longer, and his mouth was so  
warm, and wet, and slick around him, finally he couldn't bear the pleasure  
any more, it was so good it was almost pain.  
        "Ray,  
Ray please!" he managed to gasp.  
        Ray  
released him slowly, gently, sitting up, licking his lips, and smiling  
that same wicked smile that had started this. Fraser caught him by the  
arms and pulled him down for a kiss that tried to pour everything he  
felt into the touch of lips and tongue. And that was answered by the  
feel of strong arms around him, and yielding mouth opening to his, and  
the taste of chocolate and himself in Ray's mouth. And he wanted beyond  
reason to find out what Ray tasted like. He felt unutterably deprived  
at not knowing that.  
        Suddenly  
forward, he manhandled Ray out of his shirt, then yanked open his jeans  
with indecent haste, tugging and pulling until he managed to peel them  
down and off, along with his rather seasonally red-and-white striped  
briefs. Thankfully Ray was already barefoot so there were no shoes or  
socks to deal with.  
        "Ben,  
hey, you don't have to . . ." Ray began, sounding a little concerned.  
        Ben sealed his mouth  
over Ray's again, cutting off the words, and only when he could feel  
Ray begin to rock against his thigh did he let up. Ray looked a little  
hazy, but after a moment he tried to speak again.  
        "Ben,  
really . . ."  
        Ben  
kissed him again, stealing the air Ray needed to speak, occupying his  
tongue and lips with other things until finally he lifted his head, looking  
down into Ray's flushed, sweaty face. "I need to," he said  
huskily. "I _need_ to. Do you understand?"  
        Ray  
nodded, solemnly. "I do. God, I do."  
        Fraser  
smiled. Yes, Ray, of all people, would understand. Sometimes he thought  
the only reason Ray objected so much to his licking things was because  
he'd rather like to do it himself, but couldn't quite overcome his cultural  
conditioning. But he always had something in his mouth-- gum, toothpicks,  
food, pens, once even a rubber band. He smiled. And people said _he_  
had an oral fixation.  
        Easing  
back a little, Ben stared down at the impressive erection that rose from  
the dark blonde thatch between Ray's muscular thighs, and tried to think  
of how to start. Ray's spontaneity with the chocolate was absent now,  
and this was a little more awkward.  
        "Ben?"  
        He looked up to find  
Ray holding out the jar to him, grinning. "Appetizer?"  
        Ben shook his head, moistening  
his lips with his tongue. "No, thank you. I think I'll go right  
for the main course."  
        Ray  
was still laughing when Ben curved his fingers around his shaft. The  
laughter turned into a shuddering gasp at that, and a moment later when  
he bent and took him in his mouth, that gasp became a darkly satisfying  
moan. He liked making Ray laugh, but even more he liked coaxing those  
other noises from him. That hot, needy sound was the antidote to all  
the nights he'd been tormented by just this fantasy. Now it was no longer  
a fantasy. It was hotly, slickly, achingly real.  
        Ben  
held that beautiful, hard length in his hands, holding Ray, caressing  
him. He knew he was a little awkward, but he was learning quickly by  
reading Ray's responses, which were so very, very open, nothing held  
back. Each sigh, each tensing, each twitch added to his lexicon of knowledge,  
adjusting grip, pressure, the movement of his tongue. And he was learning  
other things as well. The taste of flesh. The taste of desire, of pleasure.  
He loved it. He wanted more. Much more. He tried to remember what  
Ray had done for him, the touches and strokes that had quickly driven  
him past control.  
        Judging  
from the reactions he was provoking, he was doing at least passably well,  
though he had to ignore the slight ache in his jaw from holding his mouth  
open for so long. How had Ray managed it with such seeming ease? Perhaps  
all that gum-chewing had positive side-effects. He closed his eyes,  
concentrating on other sensations, the satiny slide of wet skin-- Ray's  
cock, against wet skin-- his lips, the quiet gasps and held-back moans,  
the scent of need, of sweat, the rhythmic flexing of muscles beneath  
his hands, the racing pulsebeat he could feel against his tongue. Somewhere  
in all that, he remembered that place Ray had touched that had felt so  
amazingly good, and slipped a hand down between his partner's thighs,  
in that smooth space that was neither buttock nor cock, and pressed a  
knuckle up into it.  
        Ray  
shuddered, and that word Ben could barely speak slipped with utter naturalness  
from Ray's mouth, and it was very, very erotic. He knew what caused  
that reaction. Once he'd realized just how he felt about Ray he'd educated  
himself on what exactly was involved in making love with another man.  
However, vicarious knowledge was quite, quite different from having Ray  
here, in his mouth, in his hands. Just to be sure, he repeated that  
touch, winning a soft grunt, and a bucking thrust into his mouth.  
        Recalling that according  
to his reading, external stimulation was deemed not nearly as pleasurable  
as internal for this particular activity, he let his fingers range tentatively  
back and up, touching the hidden opening, circling it with just a fingertip.  
Ray sucked breath through clenched teeth, fingers scrabbling at the covers  
like claws. Worried, assuming the reaction to be negative, Ben immediately  
started to withdraw his hand.  
        "No!"  
Ray gasped. "No, it's . . . good!" he panted.  
        He  
would have said 'Ah' had his mouth not been otherwise occupied. Speaking  
of which . . . he drew his hand away, and deliberately slicked his fingers  
with saliva before sliding them back into position, and this time he  
was less tentative. Ray's appreciative moans and wriggles made  
him ever bolder, and finally he gave in and satisfied his own curiosity  
and Ray's apparent desire for him to continue. He slipped a wet finger  
into that small opening, gently, searched, found, and massaged.  
        Ray  
arched like a bow, but Ben had been prepared for that and rode it out  
as Ray tried ineffectually to urge him to lift his mouth, and then he  
was coming, and coming hard, moaning something that might have been 'Fraser!'  
as his release came. Though Ben knew intellectually that ejaculate traveled  
at approximately 28 miles an hour, and was comprised of water, sodium,  
zinc, acid phosphatase, citric acid, fructose and neutral alpha-glucosidase,  
that had told him nothing about how fascinating the spurts would feel  
against his tongue and his palate, thick, and hot, and so, so good.  
Nor could it have told him that Ray would taste like. . . like salted  
mangoes, salty, and sweet at the same time, very fitting, very Ray.

* * *

        Ray sagged back against  
the mattress in a panting, sweaty sprawl as Fraser let him go with a  
last lingering lick that made him shudder with its intensity. No wonder  
he'd wanted Ray to let go faster, if he'd been this sensitive afterward.  
Holy cow. And that last bit . . . wow! Stella taught him about that  
place right behind his balls, but Ben had gone her about ten times better.  
Damn, that had been something else. Surely nobody could give a blow-job  
that good without some practice! Feeling Ben's gaze on him, he took  
a deep breath and let it out slowly in a contented purr.  
        "Mmmm.  
Damn. You, uh, you done that before, hunh?"  
        Ben  
looked at him blankly. "That? You mean . . . ah . . . "  
        Ray grinned. "Yeah,  
I mean 'ah.'"  
        "Ah."  
Fraser stared at the sheets. "Well, no."  
        "Really?"  
Ray said, surprised. "Never, ever?"  
        "No,  
Ray, never."  
        Ray  
shifted onto an elbow, studying Ben intently, suddenly wondering if he'd  
jumped to a conclusion. "Um, you ever done this kind of thing in  
general, as opposed to this kind of thing in specific?"  
        "Well,  
I suppose that depends on your definition of 'this kind of thing.' I  
am not entirely unfamiliar with the . . ."  
        "You  
know what I mean. You ever sleep with a guy before?"  
        Ben  
looked at him with a wide-eyed naivete Ray had come to know was usually  
faked. "Well, certainly I have. You know that. I've slept with  
you before, among many others."  
        Ray  
sighed. "Do not pull the dense routine with me, Benton Fraser.  
I do not mean 'sleep with' as in 'snooze' and you know it. I mean 'sleep  
with' as in 'fool around with.'"  
        Fraser's  
gaze returned to the sheets, and Ray could see a rosy flush rising up  
his neck, though his face was hidden.  
        "No,"  
he finally replied, after a long, long moment.  
        Ray  
processed that, completely stunned. He'd just kind of assumed that Fraser  
must have done at least some of this stuff before. He could hardly believe  
he hadn't. He shook his head with a low whistle. "Wow."  
        Ben lifted his head just  
enough to look at him, eyebrows raised.  
        "That  
was. . . uh, pretty darned impressive for a beginner there, Ben. Guess  
I gotta work on my technique."  
        Ben  
faced him fully, shaking his head solemnly. "Oh, no, not at all.  
Your technique was delightful. All I did was mimic you."  
        Ray  
snorted. "Oh yeah, right. You were just copyin' me. Uh-hunh.  
Nope, don't fly. Like usual, you're just better at pretty much everything."  
        Ben frowned, looking  
concerned. "But that's not at all true, Ray!"  
        Ray  
held up a hand. "It's okay, Ben. I'm used to it."  
        Ben  
chewed his lip for a moment, then his gaze fell again. "Well, I  
suppose I should confess then, rather than let you make such an erroneous  
assumption."  
        Confess?  
Fraser had something to confess? The only thing Ray could think of was  
that he'd lied about not having done this before, but that would just  
be. . . wrong. Fraser didn't lie. He might bluff, he didn't lie. "Confess  
what?" he managed to ask, with some trepidation.  
        "I,  
ah, I read some materials on the subject," Fraser said in a strangled  
whisper, his face extremely pink again.  
        Read  
some mat. . . Ray started to grin. He had some research materials too.  
"These materials, would they happen to be in a magazine format with  
glossy stock and a lot of ads for 1-900 phone lines?"  
        Fraser  
stared at him, looking puzzled. "No. They were from the university  
library. They have a rather extensive collection of works on human sexuality."  
        Ray sighed, shaking his  
head. "Ben, only you would read a textbook to find out how to give  
a spectacular blowjob, and then get embarrassed about it. But I'm damned  
glad you did." He lay back, one hand curving over Ben's shoulder,  
stroking idly. It was so nice to be able to touch him like this, just  
touch, because he wanted to, not worried about anyone, including Ben,  
getting the wrong idea. Speaking of which. . . "So, uh, how long  
ago you read those books?"  
        "Ah,  
quite recently, actually."  
        "Mmm,"  
Ray said, noncommittally. "An' what prompted you to search out  
such atypical reading materials, if I might ask?"  
        Ben  
stared at him. "That was a . . ."  
        ".  
. . beautiful sentence. I know. I can do it, I just choose not to.  
Doesn't fit my style. You didn't answer my question."  
        Ben  
regarded him steadily with those smoke-blue eyes, and for once didn't  
blush. "You did. Or rather, my feelings for you. Once I had identified  
the source of my discomfort in your presence, I decided I needed to find  
out more about alternative sexualities."  
        "Including  
the 'how-to' section, eh?"  
        A  
tiny smile lifted one corner of Ben's mouth. "Well, one should  
try to be prepared for any situation, no matter how unlikely one thinks  
its chance of occurrence."  
        Ray  
chuckled. "Yeah, well, this wouldn't be the first time I've had  
reason to be thankful you were a boy scout." He stretched, arching  
lazily, then turned onto his side and ran a hand down Ben's torso, not  
trying to arouse, just because he could, then suddenly he stopped as  
he noticed there were bruises on Ben's abdomen and thighs that he didn't  
remember from the previous night, and he thought he'd been pretty observant.  
He scowled, soothing a finger across one of the marks. "Did I do  
that?"  
        Ben looked  
down, saw what Ray was doing, and started to smile. "Yes, I'm afraid  
you did."  
        What  
the hell was Ben smiling about? Ray felt awful. He'd had no idea he'd  
been that rough. "God, Ben, I'm so sorry!"  
        "Ray  
. . ."  
        "I  
don't know what got into me! I'm scum!"  
        "Ray!"  
        "Next time just  
hit me if I get that . . ."  
        "Ray,  
it's chocolate."  
        That  
got through. He looked at the 'bruise.' Licked his finger, rubbed at  
it. It smeared. Relief flooded through him. "Oh. Okay. Whew.  
Good."  
        "You  
look about the same," Ben commented, surveying him. Ray looked  
at himself and saw he too was covered with smudgy brown hand and fingerprints.  
A glance at the sheets revealed that they were similarly festooned.  
He poked at a stain, groaning. "Guess I gotta call Mom and find  
out how to get chocolate out of my sheets. She's gonna love that."  
        "You might try dishwashing  
liquid before you bother her."  
        Ray  
looked up, eyebrows lifted. "Dishwashing liquid?"  
        Ben  
nodded. "It's generally quite effective for getting oil-based food  
residues out of washable fabrics."  
        Ray  
shook his head. "Thank you, Heloise. I do not _even_ want  
to know how come you know that. Come on, shower time. Good thing skin's  
a lot easier to get chocolate off of than fabric."  
        Fraser  
looked at him oddly. "Shower?"  
        "Yeah,  
you know. You stand under running water, kinda like rain or a waterfall,  
but nice an' hot? Or don't they have those up in the Northwest Areas  
or the Canadian Consulate?"  
        Fraser  
gave him his 'silly question' look. "Of course we have showers,  
Ray. It's just that, well, I generally shower alone."  
        Ray  
chuckled. "Then you're missin' a bet. Besides, gotta make sure  
we get all the chocolate off, frontside and backside, right?" he  
asked with a broad wink.  
        "Ah.  
True enough," Fraser said, finally seeming to get a clue that maybe  
showering together might not be a bad idea. "I would suggest stripping  
the bed now, though, so the stains don't spread through to the mattress  
pad."  
        "Good  
plan." Ray bounced out of bed and held out a hand to Fraser, who  
took it and let Ray brace him to his feet. He was still moving a little  
slow and stiff, which made Ray want to go hurt someone, but he controlled  
that reaction, knowing Fraser didn't like it. He wanted Fraser to have  
a good day. A good Christmas. No, a great Christmas. Listening to  
him at the party the night before, Ray could still see and hear traces  
of a little boy struggling with year after year of disappointment, and  
hurt, and loneliness. There wasn't any way to make that up, but he could  
make sure today was special. Already had it in the works.  
        Ray  
stripped the bed quickly and tossed the sheets in the general direction  
of the hamper, then grabbed Ben's hand and pulled him toward the bathroom.  
Fraser resisted.  
        "So,  
what time do you have to leave?"  
        Ray  
looked at him blankly. "Leave?"  
        "I  
assume you're going to want to visit your parents at some point today."  
        Ray could sense hints  
of the stoic, 'get prepared for disappointment' Fraser in that question.  
He smiled gently. "No reason to go sit in an empty trailer in Skokie,  
Ben. They're at my brother's until after New Year's, seeing the grandkids."  
        Fraser brightened visibly.  
"Then you don't have to leave?"  
        "I'm  
not goin' anywhere. It's just you, me, the Grinch, and George Bailey."  
He tugged on Ben's hand, and this time he let himself be led into the  
bathroom, where Ray started the shower and stood adjusting the temperature.  
        "Ray?"  
        "Yeah, Ben?"  
He had to practice saying that, thinking that. Ben. Ben. Ben. Not  
'Fraser.' Ben.  
        "Does  
it bother you that your parents are away for the holidays?"  
        Ray smiled. "Nah.  
Two grandkids'll beat out a Chicago flatfoot every time. That's just  
the natural order of the universe and all. How it should be."  
        Fraser absorbed that  
thoughtfully. Ray wondered what it would be like to have so little clue  
about 'normal' life. Hard, he guessed. Lots of guessing, lots of coping,  
lots of envy, probably. He reached over and pulled Ben into his arms,  
felt Ben's slight hesitation, as if he didn't quite know how to react,  
then his arms slid around Ray in return, and they just stood like that  
for a moment, and it felt really good, really right. God. It hadn't  
even felt this right with Stella. So often he'd had a sense there that  
he was somehow disappointing her a little. He never, well, almost never,  
got that feeling with Ben, and when he did, it was usually his own head  
trip, not reality.  
        "Ray?"  
        "Mmm?"  
        "Ah, we appear to  
be wasting a lot of water."  
        "Oh,  
yeah. Right. C'mon then. In. Scrub time. Then vegging. Then dinner."  
        "Dinner?"  
Fraser asked interestedly as he followed Ray into the stall and closed  
the shower door behind them.  
        Ray  
stuck his head under the spray to wet down his hair, let the heat sluice  
over him for a moment, then stepped away to trade spots. Fraser leaned  
against the wall and let the spray beat down on his shoulders. Ray  
started shampooing his hair as he replied.  
        "Yeah.  
Dinner. It won't be the whole nine yards 'cause I didn't have time to  
plan, but between the QwikMart an' my freezer an' my mom, we got it covered.  
I had a chicken, so we got baked chicken, and the QwikMart had stuffing  
mix an' that maroon cranberry gunk in a can, and my mom brought over  
a pumpkin pie before she left so I wouldn't feel abandoned. Oh, and  
that green bean stuff with the mushroom soup and onion rings 'cause it  
ain't Christmas without that."  
        Because  
his eyes were closed to keep the soap out of them, Ray was startled into  
jumping and gasping when Ben's arms closed around him and his lips came  
down on his. But he relaxed immediately, and it turned into a very gentle  
kiss, very sweet. He was starting to lose himself in it when Fraser  
drew back and guided him under the shower, big, square hands in his hair,  
rinsing the shampoo away. Felt great. Really great. He made an appreciative  
sound, and turned around to face his assistant.  
        "Toldja  
you were missin' a bet," he said reaching for the soap and working  
up a good lather, before easing his hands gently across Fraser's chocolate-sullied  
torso, trying to clean without hurting him. Under his fingertips he  
felt Ben's nipples harden, and smiled, though a glance downward confirmed  
that nothing else was stirring. Yet. It was pretty soon, and neither  
of them were teenagers any more. Later, maybe. He was more than a little  
interested in finding out just what other things Ben had learned from  
his textbooks. And he'd picked up a couple of items at the QwickMart  
that were not normally used in a kitchen, though that might be fun someday,  
too.  
        Together they  
managed to get each other cleaned up, though there was chocolate in some  
pretty odd places and it was surprisingly difficult to get out of hair.  
Ray didn't bother to spike his hair, though it sort of did it on its  
own as it dried, it was just that way. Fraser put his henley back on  
with his borrowed shorts and Ray put on his sweats and a tank, and they  
headed out to watch videos while the chicken finished baking. Ray set  
up the first tape then plopped down on the couch. Fraser joined him,  
but kept staring over at the roll-top desk, frowning a little.  
        "Okay, what's up,  
Frase?"  
        "Something's  
different."  
        Ray  
grinned, realizing immediately what Ben was trying to figure out. "Yeah.  
I put away an old picture I didn't need to keep lookin' at any more.  
Actually, I did that about a week ago."  
        Fraser's  
gaze went instantly to the spot next to the fan where the photo of Ray  
and Stella had stood for a very long time. "Ah," he said quietly,  
acknowledging the change. A faint smile curved his mouth, then his gaze  
moved on to the family pictures on the wall, lingering pensively before  
he turned back to Ray. "Might I ask how you obtained that photograph  
you gave me?"  
        Ray  
fiddled with the remote control, hunching a little, embarrassed all of  
the sudden. Funny, he could have sex with Ben, no problem, but couldn't  
talk about this without blushing. "Well, I. . . ah, had a little  
help."  
        "Oh?"  
        "Yeah. I, uh, I  
knew I wanted to do something for you, something nice, something special.  
I even snagged your name off the tree so nobody else could have it.  
Then I took a second name for cover."  
        "You  
did?"  
        "Yeah."  
Ray grinned. "I cheated."  
        "I  
thought Inspector Thatcher. . ."  
        "Nope.  
All mine. Thatcher got both you an' Turnbull something, and I think  
she gave Welsh something too. Weird."  
        Fraser  
refused to be distracted by that. "I see. So, after you 'cheated,'  
then what?"  
        "Well,  
then I have this weird dream about some old Mountie guy showing me your  
baby pictures and dronin' on about your uncle this and your aunt whoosit  
an' how the acorn don't fall far from the tree an' how a picture's worth  
a thousand words. Then I remember that when you come over, you always  
look at my pictures. So I'm thinking about Christmas, and I remember  
that dream and bang, it hits me. All your stuff got burned up, and you  
need a picture. I figure you got relatives and family friends up there  
in the Big Fridge, so I talk to Welsh, and he puts me in touch with this  
Afrobush guy . . ."  
        "Sergeant  
Frobisher?"  
        "Yeah,  
that's him. Frobisher. He's kinda trippy, y'know?"  
        "Yes,  
I do indeed," Ben said, sounding amused and vehement at the same  
time.  
        "Anyway,  
he says he can help, and voila, the picture shows up, next-day air.  
So all I had to do was get a frame for it, and stick it in a box. I  
didn't really do much of anything. Glad you liked it, though. But you  
know what the weird thing is? The guy in my dream looked just like an  
older version of that guy in your picture."  
        "You  
mean my father?"  
        Ray  
looked up at the odd tone in Ben's voice. "Yeah. I . . . yeah.  
Guess he is your dad, hunh?" He grinned, and shook his head. "Funny,  
I know you got a mom and dad, and knew he was a Mountie, too, but I  
guess I kinda always thought your parents musta found you in a little  
crashed space ship wrapped in a red blanket with a big blue 'S' on it."  
        Ben actually smiled at  
that. "No, Ray, so far as I'm aware, my origins are entirely terrestrial."  
        "Good, 'cause that  
man of steel thing sounds kinda painful," Ray said with a wink.  
"Think I like the man of flesh an' blood a lot better." He  
slid his fingers underneath the bottom edge of Fraser's shorts. Fraser  
made a little squeaking sound and grabbed his hand, which made Ray laugh,  
and they wrestled for a moment, Ray pretending to try to cop a feel and  
Fraser pretending he objected until they ended up kissing again, and  
that led to petting, and things got rather breathless until Ray realized  
that he must've accidentally hit 'play' while they were struggling, because  
all the little Whos were singing "Da hoo dooray" and not even  
he could fool around with the Grinch on.  
        Catching  
his breath, he leaned back and pulled Ben back against him with an arm  
around his waist, found the remote, and backed up the tape to the start.  
        "You ever seen this?"  
        "No, Ray, I'm not  
familiar with it."  
        Ray  
grinned. "Fraser, you are in for a treat."  
        Fraser's  
expression went solemn. "I've already had a treat, Ray. Or rather,  
a gift. Many gifts. I only wish I had one for you."  
        Ray  
rolled his eyes. "Ben, don't get all O. Henry on me here, okay?  
You gave me a home run. A buddy-breath. A woman's life off my conscience.  
A partner. And now yourself. That's plenty. More than plenty. More  
than I ever expected. And probably more than I deserve. But I ain't  
complaining. You?"  
        Fraser  
looked at him, and there was a hint of something in those smoky eyes,  
something deep, and profound, and a little frightening, because it looked  
the way Ray felt when he thought about Ben. Then a smile bloomed, and  
Ben shook his head.  
        "No,  
Ray. I 'ain't complaining,' either."

* * * Finis * * *  


* * *

Comments to: Kellie  
  
          



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